Scar Tissue
by ncfan
Summary: Aredhel isn't prepared to be a mother, or to even try to be one.


I own nothing.

* * *

It is cold, and quiet. The cold is not so unusual; on the Ice, even a burning fire seems not to possess the warm it ought to. The cold is not unusual; Irissë has grown to suspect that her veins run white with snow instead of red with blood. As much as she despises the cold, she has grown used to it, grown accustomed to the idea that she will never be warm again, so that it is cold when she wakes in the dark is no surprise to her.

If there is anything that surprises her now, it is the quiet.

Turukáno and Itarillë's sleep have both been deeply disturbed since the Ice cracked beneath the latter and her mother's feet more than… Irissë squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to remember how long it's been. Without the waxing and waning of the lights of the Two Trees, there is very little way to tell the passage of time, but she thinks… She thinks it's been a week. A week and a day perhaps, or a week minus one day, since Elenwë drowned.

Elenwë's husband and daughter have just now been deemed well enough to travel again after their own close encounter with the freezing waters beneath the Grinding Ice. _Only in body, _Irissë thinks and has thought grimly to herself since her brother and niece were set on their feet again and told to walk. _Well enough in body, perhaps. Not in mind or heart._

Now, it is dark in the tent, apart from the gently popping fire, and it is entirely too quiet.

Irissë is the only one awake. Turukáno and Itarillë have drifted off into an uneasy, but mercifully silent sleep—if they can sleep without tossing and turning, perhaps they will finally find some rest and have energy for the journey once the hosts of Nolofinwë and Findaráto have begun to move again. Irissë is lying down on her side, and Itarillë is curled up against her chest, her breathing hitched, and even in the dim firelight, her face is clearly wan and stretched.

The shadows creep over Irissë as she lies there in the silent cold, listening to her family's breathing and the sound of her own heart beating.

She's not sure she can do this.

Over the seeming eternity she has spent on the Ice, watching it shift and break apart, watching the waters and the cold and the blank despair claim the lives of her family's followers, Irissë has grown used to hardships. She has grown used to taking on more responsibilities than she had in Valinor, and though she is loath to admit it frankly relishes the chance to contribute to the survival of her kin, to be useful, to have something to do, even if that which she does, leading hunting parties, does nothing to take her mind from the realities of life on the Ice. Hunting only reminds her, starkly and constantly, that her people are dying and suffering all around her, but at least she can do her best to alleviate their suffering and bolster their chances of survival.

Irissë can face starvation. She can face fruitless hunts. She can face the dimly disappointed looks on the faces of the Quendi when she and her party returns to camp empty-handed. But she's not sure she can face what's lying in her arms right now.

Ever has Irissë dwelled with her brother and his wife and child since they left Tirion, traveling north. Turukáno needed someone to keep him sane and grounded and Elenwë needed someone to help her with Itarillë. This Irissë did gladly—for all that she is awkward and unsure of herself around children, she is fond of little laughing Itarillë and the feeling is mutual. But Itarillë laughs no longer—the Ice took that from her—and Elenwë is dead beneath the cruel waves of the ocean, where none can reach her to even think to save her.

With Elenwë gone and all of her kin remaining in Valinor, it falls to Irissë to try and raise this girl as a mother would have done. There is no one else. Anairë has stayed in Valinor as well and though Lalwen is here, she is much absorbed in running the camp and directing the host, as is Nolofinwë her brother, Irissë's father and Itarillë's grandfather. Artanis stays with her brothers; Indis and Findis and Eärwen have all remained in Valinor. There is no one but Irissë.

_But I can't be her mother! _her heart cries out in the silence, pleading to an audience all stricken deaf. _The Ice scars us all, with each gust of wind and life lost, and I can not be a mother to her as I am now. I do not know how. I have never wanted children, and do not know how to raise a child._

_I barely know what to do about my own scars, my own cares. I look down upon my hands and see hands that have shed blood of beast and Quendë alike. There is nothing in me that can raise a child to be a kind, caring adult. I can protect her but I can not nurture. I can kill in her defense, and I can love her, for I already do love her, but I can't raise her. I can't give her what she needs. I can't be her mother._

Itarillë stirs in her sleep and Irissë strokes her hair, struggling to keep her own pulse calm for fear that, if she grows too disturbed, Itarillë will sense her disquiet in her sleep and awaken.

She isn't prepared to be a mother, or even a mother-figure. She isn't prepared to relate to Itarillë in such a way, does not think she even knows how. _Where have we come? Where have we brought her? Where is Elenwë, beneath the waves?_

_Where…_

Her throat starts to grow hard and hot. Her eyes begin to prick. _No. I will not weep. I am Irissë, daughter of Nolofinwë and Anairë, granddaughter of Finwë and Indis, and I will not weep. There is too much here for me to do, and I must not succumb to grief. There is still too much to do._

When the call comes for the hosts to awaken and continue on their journey towards Endóre, Irissë rises first, and rouses her brother and her niece to wakefulness. Briskly, without any hint of turmoil in her, she helps Turukáno take down the tent and stuff the canvas and tent poles and pegs onto a wagon. She checks Itarillë over to be sure that her cloak is fastened properly, and does the same for her brother, before calling to Nolofinwë that Turukáno and his following are ready to journey on.

As they start to walk, Itarillë's step totters. Turukáno is walking ahead and does not notice; normally, Nolofinwë would have Itarillë with him, but today his mind is elsewhere and he does not call for his granddaughter.

Irissë watches her, until she sighs inwardly and calls for Itarillë to come to her.

She kneels down to pull her young niece into her arms, balancing Itarillë's weight on her hip as she stands again, and begins to walk, in the company of their cousins Findaráto and Artaresto. Itarillë latches her arms about Irissë's neck and rests her pale golden head on her shoulder, her eyes dull and glazed.

The Ice has taken from them, and continues to take, and will probably still be left wanting even when it has swallowed them all whole, just in the way that Ungweliantë, who drank and drank from the Two Trees and still found her thirst and hunger wanting. The scars twist and turn over the roadways of her heart, and invisible on her skin they grow, until Irissë is sure that she will never see her skin unblemished again. In this state, she does not think she can be a mother to Itarillë, can not be what she needs. She can not replace Elenwë and loathes the thought of trying. Irissë can only imagine herself hurting Itarillë if she tries to be her mother, tries even to ape the role of mother, for her fingers feel like claws and all she's good for out here is killing game.

But she can do this at least. And until they find Endóre, or until they drown, and Itarillë can be with her mother again, Irissë will do this, at least.

* * *

Irissë—Aredhel  
Turukáno—Turgon  
Itarillë—Idril  
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
Findaráto—Finrod  
Artanis—Galadriel  
Artaresto—Orodreth  
Ungweliantë—Ungoliant

Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)  
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)


End file.
